


Be A Man

by Lady_of_Lorule



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Batbrothers (DCU), Brothers, Damian Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Gen, Light Angst, Mentioned Ra's al Ghul, Nail Polish, Painting, Sexism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:07:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23238178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_of_Lorule/pseuds/Lady_of_Lorule
Summary: “Why are you hiding in here?” Dick askedDamian, however, barely heard the question. He was too distracted by his brother’s outfit. Namely the crop top that exposed half his torso, like something one of the dumb teenage girls at his school would wear. Why the hell was Grayson wearing that?
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne
Comments: 7
Kudos: 355





	Be A Man

“Bruce! Alfred! I’m heading out!” Dick thundered from the top of the stairs.

Damian looked up from his textbook, annoyance dancing across his face. He’d holed up in the lesser used study to read for some peace and quiet from his loud family. Now Grayson was making him regret not just hiding in his room.

Then the silence resumed. Damian nodded his approval and looked down at his neglected book, only to have the piercing sound of feet running down the stairs interrupt him a moment later. He slammed his book shut and groaned.

“You okay, little D?” Grayson asked in concern, peeking his head through the doorway.

He waved a hand dismissively. “Fine. Don’t you have work, Grayson?”

“Yeah, but it’s a volunteer position. I can afford to be a few minutes late.” He ambled into the room, his hair falling into his eyes. Damian knew Alfred was close to sitting him down for a haircut. “Why are you hiding in here?”

Damian, however, barely heard the question. He was too distracted by his brother’s outfit. Namely the crop top that exposed half his torso, like something one of the dumb teenage girls at his school would wear. Why the hell was Grayson wearing that?

“You plan to work in that?” he found himself saying. 

Grayson had the nerve to look down at his outfit and then back up at him as if he couldn't possibly understand his meaning.

“What are you talking about? I’m teaching gymnastics, I need clothes that I can move in easily. Not all of us like to dress like professors in our downtime,” Grayson teased, ruffling his hair.

On instinct, Damian scowled and pulled away. Normally, he loved that small bit of affection (not that he would ever admit it), but he couldn’t enjoy it right now with the confusion clouding his mind.

Grayson’s watch beeped and he swore. “Okay, I really need to go. I’ll see you on patrol!” He called the last part over his shoulder as he ran out of the room.

Damian, helplessly confused and concerned, didn’t regain enough focus to return to his studies that day, and seeing his brother that night, in his proper uniform and beating up bad guys, didn’t help one bit.

* * *

“I can’t decide what color I want,” Steph groaned, rifling through the plethora of glass bottles.

“Do purple,” Babs suggested, reclined on the couch with her feet in Cass’s lap. “Isn’t that your favorite color?”

She sighed. “It is. But I always do purple. I want to change it up.”

Damian rolled his eyes. He wasn’t even sure why he had decided to stay in the parlor after the girls had invaded with their nail polish other than a stubborn desire not to be evicted by them. For their part, they’d made no remark on his presence. Cass occasionally peeked up at him from her task of painting Babs’ toes red, but she didn’t say anything. She seemed frustrated, like she couldn’t find the words to say to him. He wasn’t sure what she could possibly want to discuss with him right now.

“You could do red, too,” Babs said.

Steph set aside a few colors. “I think that would look too mature.”

The redhead made a thoughtful expression, then perked up, her eyes on the open doorway. “Hunk Wonder! Get in here!”

She could only be talking to one person. Damian focused more solidly on their conversation as Grayson strolled into the room, smiling at Babs. He must have just gotten home, because he was still wearing his motorcycle jacket and his keys were in his hand.

“You didn’t invite me to girls’ night?” he asked, mock offense coloring his voice, an easy grin on his face. He moved over to Cass and dropped a kiss onto her head. She rewarded him with a smile.

“We need to help Steph decide what color she wants her nails to be,” Babs informed him.

“Fingers or toes?” he asked, wandering over to the polish selection. Damian’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

“Toes. It chips too fast on my fingers,” Steph answered.

Dick raised an eyebrow. “”What do I get for helping you pick?”

“Cass’ll do your nails if you want,” Steph volunteered.

“Are you okay with that?” he asked his sister rather than taking Steph at her words. When Cass nodded a grin broke out on his face. “Awesome. It’s a deal.”

Damian couldn’t remain a silent observer any longer. “You  _ want  _ your nails to be painted, Grayson?”

“Totally. Cassie is really good at it,” Dick said, then plucked out a bottle. “Steph, you should definitely do this one. It’ll look great with those heels you like.”

She snatched the bottle from him and examined it critically. Damian could tell that it was some shimmery shade of blue, but was otherwise uninteresting, no different than the other polishes as far as he could tell. Steph grinned triumphantly though, and tossed it back at Dick. He caught it easily.

“Perfect. Paint my toes,” she demanded.

“Why do  _ I  _ have to do it?” he asked, although he was already unscrewing the lid.

“Because Babs isn’t good at toes and Cass is already busy.” Steph swung her feet onto his lap and wiggled her toes, making him laugh.

“So bossy. You’re spending too much time with Babs.”

The redhead in question smirked. “You’re lucky my nails are wet, or else you’d be paying for that comment.”

They continued to banter in that manner. Damian only paid half attention to them; he had case files that he wanted to go over. However, when Cass began painting Dick’s fingernails (a dark shade of blue, nearly black) he found himself in a haze of a familiar confusion.

He’s never seen a man wearing nail polish. He’d always associated that particular adornment with females. His mother’s nails had always been a deep, blood red, always perfect with no chips or cracks. Girls in those silly movies Grayson had forced him to watch would always giggle ridiculously as they gossiped about their love lives and painted their nails. Was Grayson not aware that was a feminine activity? Maybe he was just humoring the girls. He never could say no to them, especially Gordon.

Damian squinted at Grayson, at the genuine smile in his face as he watched Cass paint his nails. No, that wasn’t his fake or polite smile. He wasn’t just indulging them, he was actually enjoying himself.

But that didn’t make much sense. Men shouldn’t like that kind of thing. Like he shouldn’t like wearing crop tops or having his hair braided or all of those odd things he’d seen Grayson engage in of his own free will.

“Hey, little D,” Grayson called, yanking him out of his reverie. “What do you think?”

He brandished his freshly painted nails and Damian made sure his expression remained neutral. “That was an adequate job, Cassandra,” he replied.

It was easier to offer an artist a compliment than to admit to his brother that he was so confused, that all he wanted was an explanation, but he wasn’t even sure _what_ he wanted explained _. _

Grayson looked at him and he fought the urge to fidget. That look meant that he knew that there was something wrong. If Grayson tried to press the issue, Damian would cave, and he didn’t want to, not in front of an audience.

Grayson seemed to understand, because he just turned back to Cassandra and said, “He’s right. You’re really good at this, Cassie.”

Damian snuck out of the room soon after that. For once he was glad that Grayson didn’t follow.

* * *

“Can anyone besides Mr. Wayne tell me what the purpose of the symbolism on page twenty-four is…?”

Damian allowed himself a smug grin. His inferior classmates all glared at him, but that only inflated his ego further. He felt no guilt when most of the imbeciles hadn’t even bothered to read the book. They brought this on themselves, and anyways he was an al Ghul and a Wayne. They didn’t stand a chance against him.

_ Ping.  _ His smirk faded into a frown. He slipped his phone out of his pocket to see an alert. He only had an alert for alien invasions and his family. His day was going to be ruined if this was another article about Timothy falling asleep during a charity event. He’d rather listen to the idiot stammering out a juvenile answer to the teacher’s question.

He opened his phone and clicked on the alert. A news article greeted him and his chest tightened.

_ Please, no one be injured, no one be dead,  _ he thought before scrolling down to see the headline and a photograph.

He stared at the typed words uncomprehendingly.

_ Brucie Wayne’s Eldest Son Stars in New Photo Shoot. _

Below was a professionally done photo of Grayson wearing a see-through shirt, leather pants, and black boots, like a mix between a clubber and a cop, complete with fake belt and holster around his waist. His hair was carefully styled, slightly shimmering, his lips painted blue, and glitter on his eyelids. A wave of revulsion and denial surged up in him, warring with each other.

Damian stood before he was fully conscious of what he was doing.

“Mr. Wayne, class is not over, please take your seat,” his teacher instructed.

He ignored her and the clamor of his classmates as he strode towards the door. He shoved it open and tramped outside, his phone burning his palm. The campus swirled around him, but blissfully he was alone. He was still alone when he strode into the art room and started assembling his supplies. He yanked a chair over to the window and threw himself down.

He drew two images as if in a fever. They came to life in sweeps of charcoal, black and gray streaks. On the left, Ra’s al Ghul mounted his throne in his opulent robes, his chin high and his eyes dead. The Demon’s Head.

Then, in sharp contrast, Richard Grayson on the right lounged before the Batcomputer in the Batman suit, cowl pushed down to reveal kind eyes and a teasing smile, every line in his body relaxed and smooth. The Dark Knight.

They were the two men who had raised him, as different as night and day. He admired them both anyways, even when he hated his grandfather or was mad at Grayson. And while he had adopted many of Grayson and his new family’s beliefs, Ra’s had been instilling certain core ideals in him since before he could wield a blade, including strict gender roles.

Men were strong and violent. They wore the pants, both literally and figuratively. They were warriors, Damian was a warrior, a man. His grandfather had ensured that, drilling it into his head, along with a list of everything that a man does  _ not  _ do.

He doesn’t wear girl’s clothes. He doesn’t paint his nails. He doesn’t wear make-up. He doesn’t show vulnerability. Most of all, he isn’t  _ weak. _

Grayson wears girl’s clothes. He paints his nails, wears make-up, and shows vulnerability. But he’s Damian’s Batman. He isn’t— he  _ can’t  _ be— weak.

His mind hurts as he tries to reconcile everything he knows. Is Grandfather wrong? He can’t be, because Grandfather is the smartest man he knows. But that would mean that Grayson is weak, isn’t a man, and that’s unthinkable.

Time passes. The bell signalling the end of the day rings, but he doesn’t move. He just stares at his two drawings and frowns.

His reverie is broken some time later by a knocking on the open door frame, where a man now stands.

“Hey, little D,” Grayson’s cheerful voice chirps. “I thought I might find you in here. Did you forget I was going to treat you to an arcade trip, or is this a passive aggressive way of telling me you don’t feel like hanging out?”

Truthfully, Damian  _ had  _ forgotten all about that, but that was hardly a concern of his now.

“Did you come straight from work?” he asked, his thoughts still all jumbled.

“Yeah. Amy even let me go a few minutes early,” he responded, ambling towards him, still wearing his police uniform. He’d only been on the job for a month, but it seemed to suit him. He seemed to enjoy how dangerous and demanding the job was. “Can I see what you drew?”

Damian hesitated, holding his sketchbook against his chest. Then he forced himself to hold it out for Grayson. His brother rewarded him with a sunny smile before he peeked down. Damian’s nerves made his hands shake as a furrow appeared between Grayson’s brows, so he clasped them together in his lap.

“You’re an amazing artist, little D. I was never very good at this stuff,” he said, obviously trying to shuffle around the subject. Even knowing that, a warm feeling spread inside him at the praise. Then Grayson raised an eyebrow. “Do you want to tell me why you ditched class to draw your grandfather and me? Not that I don’t love you drawing me, but I feel like I’m missing something here.”

He considered not telling Grayson why he’d drawn that, what had been bothering him for weeks, but mostly he just wanted to get it off his chest.

“I saw your cover spread on that tabloid,” he ended up saying, then frowned.

“Oh God. All the cops at the precinct wouldn’t shut up about it,” he groaned, rubbing his temples. “If I was making any friends, I think I just ruined it along with any chance at promotion.” He peeked back at Damian. “Is that what’s bothering you? That I did a photo shoot?”

“No. Not exactly.”

“Kid, you’re killing me here. I’m not Miss M, I’m not telepathic. What’s bothering you?”

Some floodgate inside him was flung open and everything came pouring out. “Why do you like to wear make-up and crop tops and that sort of stuff?”

There it was. The question he’d been dying to ask, terrified to bring up. He peeked at Grayson to see his reaction, to see if he was mad or offended. But instead, those blue eyes just held understanding, sadness, and a shade of anger.

“I just like those things,” he replied in an even tone. “I grew up wearing make-up and leotards for the circus. My parents weren’t really concerned with gender norms. No one in the circus was, so I’ve never really cared about them either. I like to paint my nails and wear make-up because I think it looks good. I like to wear crop tops because they’re comfortable and easy to move in.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” Damian said slowly, Grayson’s patient explanation washing over him.

He sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “Look, I’m going out on a limb here and guessing that Ra’s had some strong opinions about gender roles. I get that we were raised very differently. That’s fine. I’m comfortable in who I am, and I care about you unconditionally. Okay?”

He smiled tentatively, weeks of conflict and confusion melting away. “Okay.”


End file.
